


Sleeping in Starlight

by MelodramaticCoffeeAddict



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, The Adventures of Sinbad (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Character Death, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13693818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodramaticCoffeeAddict/pseuds/MelodramaticCoffeeAddict
Summary: Sometimes, grief is far more dangerous than we know. Especially when you don't know how to grieve.





	Sleeping in Starlight

Good things are supposed to happen to good people. Only bad people get punished. Or, that’s what they used to tell him. If he did as he was told, if he was a good boy, good things would happen to him. But, their idea of a good boy wasn’t what he wanted to be: complacent, calling that woman his mother, a good little slave. So he stayed a bad boy in chains and blood.  
Good things are supposed to happen to good people. So when Sinbad offered him his hand, offered him freedom, he wondered if maybe he was a good person. They all looked at him like he was. Smiled at him and patted his head. Each of them had patience about ten miles long with him. Rurumu gave him extra lessons so he could get smarter. Jafar let him sit and watch him practice. Sinbad sat with him to look at the stairs late at night, long after he was supposed to be in bed. They gave him alone and love and a warm feeling that Sin said meant happiness.  
Good things happen to good people. That’s why Sin got his country. Why Rurumu got a family. Why everyone got a home and a place they belonged.  
But good things don’t always happen to good people. He got them. He got a family and safety and happiness. Good things don’t only happen to good people and bad things don’t only happen to bad people.  
Sindria is gone. Rurumu is dead. Sinbad is missing. His family is broken and sad.  
Hinahoho is heartbroken. Their children won’t stop crying.  
That’s his fault.  
Jafar is trying to do a hundred things at once. Even with Drakon’s help, it’s too much. They’re both exhausted.  
That’s his fault.  
Sharkkon will have nothing to come back to.  
That’s his fault.  
He should have done something. Been quicker, smarter, braver. Anything to help. Anything to die instead of her. He’s a bad person. The bad things are supposed to happen to him. Just to him. Everyone else is good, so good. Good things should happen to them. And bad things should happen to only him. But, it doesn’t seem like the world is going to work out like that.  
So, he’ll have to try and be good instead.  
Jafar calls for him to come and eat dinner with everyone and he does, even though he doesn’t want to. He hasn’t had a real appetite in days and he knows Jafar is going to ask him to eat. But between the sadness engulfing the table and the smell of food he doesn’t want to eat, all he can feel is nausea threatening to overtake him. Sitting with Hina’s miserable children to his right does nothing to help, especially with the youngest still screaming her lungs out. Hina tries desperately to calm her but every sob is stab to his chest and worsens the headache that’s been poking at him all day. Which isn’t helping the queasiness rocking his stomach like a boat in a storm.  
He reaches out, grabbing Jafar’s sleeve and tugs lightly, careful not to rip the worn fabric. The older boy turns his gaze down with a concerned and questioning eyebrow, gaze searching every inch of him as he struggles to remember how to speak.  
“Can I go back to my room?”  
The question is a hoarse whisper that barely reaches his own ears. He forgot how long long it’s been since he actually forced himself to talk. Long enough for his voice to get scratchy and almost painful, apparently.  
By some miracle, Jafar hears him anyway. Jafar’s frown deepens, eyes moving from his face to his place. “You didn’t eat anything.” The older boy’s voice is quiet and Masrur is grateful he’s at least trying not to draw attention.  
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbles. “Please?”  
Jafar bites his lip, moving a pale hand to feel his forehead and cheeks. “No fever,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re not sick.”  
Masrur shakes his head. “No. Just not hungry.”  
“You didn’t eat anything yesterday either.”  
Damn that man and how observant he is. “I’m not hungry.”  
“You have to eat something.”  
“I’m not hungry.”  
Jafar ignores him, turning back to the table.  
Masrur’s stomach rolls. If he eats anything, he’s going to throw up, he knows it. He reaches out again to tug at Jafar’s sleeve. “Please, Jafar. I’m not hungry.”  
The older boy continues to ignore him. He takes a moment to weigh his options. He can just accept that Jafar is ignoring him and force himself to eat a bit to pacify the older boy. Which also means he runs the risk of throwing the meal up later on. Or he can do what he’s seen Hina’s kids do and tug at him until Jafar can’t handle the annoyance anymore.  
Normally, he’d go with option one. But, it’s never hurt to try a new tactic. And he really doesn’t feel like vomiting. So, he gives Jafar’s sleeve a few more tentative tugs. All he wants is to go back to his room. It’s too loud and he’s dizzy. And he wants to finish reading his story. He promised her he’d learn how to read it before the last moon of this month. He can’t let her down. He can’t  
“Damn it, Masrur, I said no!” Jafar snarls, pulling his arm away.  
The force and surprise are enough to startle Masrur and he’s caught of balance. In the blink of an eye, he finds himself on the floor, chair tipped over beside him. Silence reigns through the room for a solid minute as he pushes himself into a sitting position, biting his lips and unable to take a second look at Jafar, staring at him in mute horror.  
A blush rushes across his cheeks while he stares at the floor, waiting for one of them to move. To punish him. Because he’s bad. And bad things should happen to bad people.  
“Masrur.” Drakon’s soft voice pulls his attention when no one moves to strike him. “Eat three bites of everything on your plate. Then you can go to your room.”  
Masrur’s never shoveled food into his mouth so fast, three bites of everything down his throat before anyone else in the room can speak, or even pick up his chair. He’s out the door and back to the safety of his room before Drakon can give him the okay. His heart pounds in his chest and every part of his body trembles as he stumbles over to sink down beside his bed.  
Jafar’s never actually yelled at anyone. Not to his memory anyway. Sure, the older boy scolds them all of the time - especially Sharkkon and Sin - but he’s never yelled at them. Only Masrur could manage to screw up badly enough that he draws an actual yell from one of the calmest people he’s ever met.  
He reaches up and pulls the blanket from his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders, and pulls his story scroll from beneath his matress. Anything to get his mind away from his rolling stomach. It takes a lot of concentration for him to read the strange, squiggle marks, but Rurumu had always promised him he’d eventually be able to read it without a second thought. And he’d promised her he’d keep trying. So, he breathes deeply and pushes on.  
To his surprise, his stomach calms for the first time in days and his head isn’t pounding as badly either. Maybe he should make a bigger effort to eat a little bit of food from time to time, when he remembers.  
Foot falls and voices tell him that the others have finished dinner and are returning to their own rooms. Darkness creeps in, making it more and more difficult to read the words.  
Some words are easier to read than others. Sinbad and Jafar’s names. The words djinn and dungeon. Words he’s forced himself to recognize. He doesn’t bother to climb back into his bed once darkness sits in, just slides the scroll back out of view. The bed is too soft. When he’d first come to live with them, he’d been afraid to actually sleep on the mattress. It was far softer than anything he’d ever slept on and he’d thought he’d sink into it and be trapped forever. Rurumu had laughed when he’d admitted it to her, explaining while he was sleeping on the floor two years ago. Then she’d whisked him to her and Hina’s room, promising to hold him up so he wouldn’t be lost forever.  
Now, even when he’s a bit older, wiser, he can’t help but fear he might sink down again without her there to hold him up.  
His mind drifts as sleep pulls at him. Every once in a while, he’s a little more aware. He hears someone talking or hears Hina’s children nextdoor. The exhaustion isn’t enough to keep him from hearing the soft knock at his door and Jafar’s tentative voice call his name. Or from hearing the older boy’s sigh in defeat and walk away. Masrur is too tired to talk Jafar right now. His eyes won’t even allow him to open them. Not long after, he hears another knock and, this time, Hina call his name.  
The door creaks open when he doesn’t answer. Hina’s heavy feet send slight tremor through the floor, followed by another, much lighter set of footsteps.  
“Is he sleeping on the floor?” Jafar asks.  
Hina hums. “He used to a lot. When he first came to us. He told Rurumu he’d sink through the soft mattress and be stuck.”  
“Masrur said that?”  
“You sound surprised.”  
“That’s just.” Jafar pauses. “It’s a rather childish thought, isn’t it?”  
“Fitting for him,” Hina replies. The large man’s arms move around Masrur, lifting him off of the floor and into the soft bed. “He is a child.”  
Jafar is quiet from a moment before his footsteps approach. Hands fus around Masrur’s blankets, tugging them to cover every inch below his neck. A smaller hand - Jafar’s then - brushes over his forehead and cheeks again.  
“Is something wrong?” Hina asks.  
“He hasn’t been eating.” Jafar’s hand moves to stroke his hair. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him eat a full meal. I thought maybe he was sick.”  
The two fall silent and he’s only vaguely aware of both their eyes on him.  
“I forgot his lessons.” Jafar’s voice trembles as he breaks the quiet.  
“What?”  
“His lessons. I promised him I’d keep up with his lessons, weeks ago. After - after everything. And, I forgot.”  
“Jafar.” Hina’s voice is softer than Masrur’s ever heard it.  
“He’s not sick but he won’t eat. And when he talked. His voice, Hina. It sounded like I was the first person he’d talked to in ages. And I was so angry.”  
Masrur’s chest tightens at the shivering breath Jafar pulls in. He didn’t want to make Jafar angry. He just wants to stay out of their way. For them, he wants to be good.  
“Angry because I can’t remember the last time I thought to check on him. Or talk to him. I told Sin I’d look after everyone and I didn’t.”  
Hina is quiet for a pause. “He’s quiet. Doesn’t ask for much. Independent. I forgot to look in on him too, Jafar. It doesn’t all fall to you.”  
Jafar sniffles. More guilt floods Masrur. “Sin would know what to do. What to say.”  
“Maybe. But there’s nothing to be done tonight. Let him sleep. We’ll talk with him in the morning.”  
Another bout of sniffling.  
“You should go to bed as well. You’re exhausted.”  
“Yeah.” Jafar’s hand strokes through Masrur’s hair again. “Alright. Thank you.”  
“Good night, Jafar.”  
“Good night, Hina.”  
The door clicks shut and all is quiet for a long minute. Then the bed groans and shifts around him. He feels Hina’s massive form settle down beside him, warm radiating from him.  
“Tomorrow, Drakon and I will find a hammock for your room,” Hina tells him, voice gentle. “But, for tonight, I’ll make sure the bed doesn’t eat you.”  
So, Hina knows he’s been awake this whole time. He wonders what gave it away. And how Jafar, of all people, somehow missed it. Masrur finally blinks his heavy eyelids open. Hina lays beside him, watching him with sad, worried eyes.  
“Why haven’t you been eating, Masrur?”  
“Not hungry.”  
His throat is dry and rough, voice scraping against his throat when he speaks. Hina frowns at him. One giant arm wraps around him, pulling him close and Masrur snuggles into the warmth, too exhausted to worry about his pride or how childish he must look.  
“You have to eat, Little One. You’ll make yourself sick.” Hina’s fingers rake through his hair. “Everyday.”  
“Forgot.”  
It’s not the complete truth. The first three days were intentional, but the rest of the days weren’t. Besides, he hasn’t had a real appetite in weeks. Most days, food is the last thing on his mind.  
“I’ll remind you.” Hina looks down at him. “Making yourself sick and locking yourself up in this room isn’t going to make you feel any better.”  
Tears begin to sting Masrur’s eyes and he squeezes them shut. Hina tugs him a bit closer.  
“It’s alright to cry,” the giant man whispers. “I miss her too.”  
A choked whimper leaves his throat but he bites his lip to keep from crying. He doesn’t deserve to cry. Not when he’s the reason everyone else is so sad. He should feel bad. Bad people should feel bad.  
He doesn’t cry. His body trembles with the effort to hold in all of his sorrow, but he doesn’t cry. Hina lets out a sigh, burying his nose in Masrur’s hair. “Jafar’s going to want to talk to you in the morning. He’s worried.”  
Masrur swallows his sobs and lets out a shaky breath. “Sorry.”  
“I know. And he knows you didn’t mean to worry him. Sleep now, Little One.”  
He nods, lets Hina pull him snug to his side. Lets his eyes fall closed again. Wills his mind to let him rest. And it does. For a time.

He wakes soaked in sweat with the scent of death in his nose and a scream at the tip of his tongue. It takes a minute of blinking and deep breathes for the sound of war to fade, replaced by waves slapping against wood. He’s not sitting on a pile of bodies, but sitting up in his bed on the ship.  
Its over. The war is done. She’s dead. And that’s his fault.  
Something shifts beneath the blanket beside him. Masrur starts, looking to his left before he remembers Hina stayed with him earlier that night. He feels like he’s barely closed his eyes. None of the exhaustion hasn’t faded from his body.  
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark and the shape in the bed come a little clearer. A shape that is far too thin and short to be Hina sits up beside him.  
“Masrur? Are you awake?”  
He blinks, surprise and confusion filling him. “Sin?”  
Now that he’s getting used to the dark, it’s quite obvious that it is indeed his king beside him. “Oh, thank the gods,” Sinbad says.  
Then, to Masrur’s utter shock, Sinbad pulls him into a tight hug. The older boy has always been on to touch, he’s not denying that. A hand on Masrur’s shoulder, a passing ruffle of his hair, or a guiding hand to put him in the right direction. But he can’t think of a single time that Sinbad’s ever hugged him like this. Though, what Sinbad is doing here, when the king has been missing for weeks, is just as much of a mystery.  
With a sniffle, Sinbad breaks the hug and looks down at him, cupping his face. Masrur can do nothing but stare, dumbfounded as tears trickle down Sinbad’s face. The adventure, the conqueror of dungeons, the fearless is crying. He presses his forehead to Masrur’s and lets out a few calming breaths.  
“You’re awake,” Sin repeats.  
Speechless, Masrur can do nothing but nod.  
Sinbad pulls him into another tight hug, nose buried in Masrur’s sweat soaked hair. “Thank the gods. I thought I’d lose you too.”  
Brow furrowed, Masrur opens his mouth to ask what’s going on. Instead of a question, however, a cough makes its way out. A strangle tickle attacks his dry throat and he coughs again, which proves to be a mistake. He can’t stop coughing, all of the air leaving his lungs. Sinbad pulls back again as he gasps and sputters to slam his fist against the wall.  
“Hina. Hinahoho!”  
Masrur gags and throws himself to the side of the bed. The last thing he wants to do is throw up on Sinbad. He chokes and wheezes and dry heaves but nothing comes up. Pain envelopes his stomach and throat when his empty stomach refuses to help him find relief. Instead, he’s left hanging over the bed, gasping while his muscles twitch in agony.  
Vaguely, he hears Sinbad let out a shaky breath and then he’s pulled up right, back against the older boy’s chest. Breathing gets easier and he relaxes as his bedroom door is thrown open. Light floods the room with a lamp and the entire ship seems to spill in. The talking begins immediately, everyone’s voice getting louder to try and be heard.  
They’re too loud. Sharp voices pound against Masrur’s aching head and he leans back into Sinbad’s chest, trying to disappear.  
“Enough,” Sinbad orders. Everyone falls blissfully quiet. “Will someone, just one of you, please go get Masrur a-”  
“Move. Out of the way.” Drakon shoulders his way through the small crowd with a goblet in his hand and Sinbad lets out a sigh of relief as he kneels in front of the bed and holds out the glass for Masrur. “It’s water. Small sips.”  
“Thank you,” Sinbad mutters as Masrur reaches out to grasp it.  
Drakon nods. “I heard him coughing.”  
Masrur whines into the glass as cool water soothes his aching throat, taking a large gulp. He regrets it immediately. His throat seizes against the cold water and he chokes, coughing out most of the water onto himself, Sinbad and Drakon. Most of the water spills from the goblet as well, soaking poor Sin.  
Embarrassment heats his cheeks and another wave of cough grip him. Drakon blinks and wipes the water from his face while Sinbad rubs a hand in soothing circles on his chest and takes the goblet from his hand.  
“Jafar, would you get some more water, please? Everyone else can go back to bed.”  
“But, he’s awake.” That sounds like Sharkkon. But he’s not here. He’s back in Heliohapt.  
“Yes, he is,” Sinbad says, firm and unwavering. “And you can see him at breakfast, if he’s feeling up to it.”  
“You can’t do anything now anyway, Sharkkon.” Drakon moves away. So Sharkkon is there. But how? “Come. I’ll take you back to bed.”  
“But. But.”  
The protests fad as the crowd thins, leaving only Hinahoho in the doorway. Masrur stares at him, panting once the coughing subsides, and watches the large man take a breath of relief.  
“Glad you’re back to yourself, Masrur,” Hina says before he turns and leaves.  
Jafar returns moments later with the goblet full of water and holds it to Masrur’s lips. “Small sips,” the older boy says. “Too much and you’ll spill it again.”  
Masrur nods, allowing Jafar to tip the water into his mouth. It’s much more slow and controlled. He gets about six sips before the tickle comes back and he turns his head away to cough. The pattern continues for about five minutes, until Masrur stomach rocks again and he presses his lips together.  
“Come on, Masrur,” Jafar encourages softly. “ Just a little more.”  
With a small whine, Masrur turns his head away, trying to hide his face in Sinbad’s collarbone.  
“It’s alright, Jafar,” Sinbad says, resting his chin on Masrur’s head. “We’ll get more into him later.”  
Jafar looks uncertain, but sets the goblet down anyway and grabs a spare blanket to tuck over Masrur’s shoulders. “Alright. Masrur, how are you feeling?”  
Peeking one eye open, he takes in the worried expression and feels guilt flood him again. “Sorry.”  
Jafar’s brow furrows, nose wrinkling around his freckles. “Sorry? What are you sorry for?”  
“Worried you.” Masrur coughs again. “And tugged your sleeve. Sorry.”  
“Tugged my sleeve?” Jafar looks genuinely confused for a moment before realization dawns. “Oh. No, Masrur, no. I’m the one who should be sorry.”  
He shakes his head. “Annoyed you. Worried you.” Sinbad’s arms tighten around him when he coughs a few more times. “I’ll eat today. Promise. Promised Hina too.”  
“What’s he talking about?” Sinbad asks softly.  
“Last week at dinner,” Jafar sighs, wiping a bit of saliva and water from Masrur’s cheek. “I lost when temper with him when he kept tugging on me.”  
“Last week?” Masrur echoes. “No. Last night.”  
Jafar shakes his head. “No. You’ve been asleep all week, Masrur.”  
He blinks harshly and looks up at Sinbad with questioning eyes. With a fearful and sad look, Sinbad nods down at him, smoothing some of Masrur’s hair away from his eyes.  
“We couldn’t wake you up,” the king whispers, haunted eyes never leaving Masrur’s face. “Even when you opened your eyes. It was like you were stuck in a dream.”  
Jafar has the same terrified look when Masrur turns back at him, though he at least tries to force a smile on his face. “You’re awake now, that’s what matters. Do you want something to eat? I can get some broth.”  
Masrur presses his lips together and swallows the feeling of nausea to shake his head. Frown deepening, Jafar’s gaze moves to Sinbad, who rubs Masrur’s arm.  
“Maybe we’ll try just a few spoonfuls, huh Masrur?” Sinbad encourages.  
Masrur lets out a moan. “Please. Sick.”  
Within seconds, Jafar’s hand is on his head, concern clear in his eyes. “You don’t feel warm.”  
“He was gagging pretty good,” Sin offers.  
The king is moving, rocking Masrur from side to side, slow and calm. Warm and relaxed, his eyes begin to drift close.  
“He hasn’t eaten properly in two weeks, Sin. That’s probably why he feels ill.”  
Sinbad sighs. “Can you try a little bit of broth for me, Masrur?”  
“Sick.”  
“I know, but I think Jafar might be right. A little bit of food might make you feel better.”  
Masrur pulls in a deep breath, another bad idea for the night. Coughs erupt from him, burning his dry throat. Once the fit subsides, Sinbad brings the water goblet to his lips, letting him guzzle it greedily.  
“We’ll try some broth, Jafar,” Sinbad tells him.  
The ex-assassin nods and disappears to the kitchen. Masrur whines softly, leaning back against the warmth of Sinbad’s chest. The king returns the gesture by placing his chin on Masrur’s head. Silence wraps around them, lulling Masrur to sleep by the second.  
“Masrur?” Sinbad says.  
He hums.  
“Just making sure you were still awake.”  
“Okay.” He snuggles a bit closer. “Sin?”  
“Yes?”  
“Happened?”  
“I told you, we couldn’t wake you up.”  
Masrur coughs, shaking his head. “No. You and Jafar were afraid.”  
Sinbad lets out a shaky breath, pulling Masrur a bit closer, arms stiff and protective. “Yeah,” he admits, nose in Masrur’s hair again. “Yeah, we were. Everyone was. A couple of times, you’d - you’d open your eyes but it was like you weren’t there at all. You’re just stare at the ceiling. And then - and then sometimes you’d just scream. Scream and thrash and we couldn’t wake you.”  
Screaming? That would probably explain why his throat is so sore.  
“Do you remember why you were screaming?” Sinbad asks. “What you were dreaming about?”  
Blood. Fear. Smoke. Death.  
Masrur shivers. “No,” he lies. He doesn’t want to lie to Sinbad, but he also doesn’t want to talk about that.  
Sinbad nods, still rocking Masrur side to side. Jafar reemerges, a small bowl cradled between his hands. With a small smile, Jafar sits on the bed’s edge and holds the bowl out for Masrur. Another coughing fit shakes his entire body when he reaches out to take it and he might have spilled the entire thing if Jafar hadn’t still been holding on. Even so, some of the broth sloshes over the side and onto him and Sinbad.  
“Sorry,” he manages between coughs. “Sorry.”  
“That’s alright,” Jafar says, giving him a smile. “Here, we’ll get you a clean blanket. Sin, why don’t you hold this.”  
“Yeah.” Sinbad takes the bowl while Jafar pulls the dirty blanket away. “Hey, Masrur, why don’t you take a bite.”  
Masrur does his best to glare through his exhaustion as Sinbad brings a spoonful of broth up to his lips. He might feel a bit weak, but there’s no way he’s going to be spoon fed like an invalid. “I can.” As if to prove how wrong he is, another cough tears through him, causing the entire bed to shake and a bit of broth splatters on Sinbad. Tears of embarrassment prick his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry.”  
“Don’t be sorry.” Sinbad smiles. “You don’t have to be sorry.”  
That’s a lie. He has to be sorry. So much to be sorry for.  
“Here we go.” Jafar wraps a new blanket around his shoulders. “Sin, give me that.” He snatches the bowl back with a sigh. “Masrur, let me help, okay?”  
Masrur coughs but nods. He might as well accept the help. Then maybe they’ll quiet down. He knows he should be a bit concerned with what Sinbad’s told him but he’s just too exhausted. His head and throat are killing him. He’d give anything to be quiet.  
Jafar beams, getting a few spoonfuls of brother down Masrur’s throat before he closes his eyes and rests his head on Sinbad’s shoulders again.  
“Masrur,” Jafar prodes softly.  
“It’s alright, Jafar,” Sinbad interrupts. “He ate some. Let him rest.”  
The two bicker back and forth for a bit, but he doesn’t bother to listen. Sleep is painless and he doesn’t have to think. Or feel. Or anything else. Sleep is perfect.

Masrur goes limp against him, eyes closed and breathing even. He glances down at the sleeping boy, halfway through telling Jafar that Masrur doesn’t have to eat anymore. Jafar falls silent as well, looking down at him.  
“Did he fall back asleep?”  
Sinbad nods, pausing his swaying. “Yeah.”  
“Is-is that okay? Should we wake him back up?”  
“No. I think we should let him sleep.”  
“Sin.”  
“I know. I know. It’s just, he’s so tired.”  
Jafar frowns and reaches out to brush some of Masrur’s hair away from his relaxed face. Sinbad chews his bottom lip as the silent settles, unsure of what to say.  
“It’ll be alright,” he finally offers. Slow and careful, he lays Masrur down and settles himself beside the boy. “He’ll be fine, Jafar. Get in bed. We need sleep too, okay?”  
Masrur is not fine. Sinbad’s barely fallen asleep, Masrur in his arms and Jafar on Masrur’s other side, when the youngest boy starts to scream. One of his hands flies into Sinbad’s cheek with bruising force and Jafar flops off the bed when Masrur thrashes, accidently kicking him.  
Cursing, Sinbad shoots up and slams his fist on the wall to get Hinahoho’s attention. They’ll need him to help keep Masrur from hurting himself again. He doesn’t ever want to see blood trickling from Masrur’s forehead after the young boy’s punched himself in his dreams ever again. Though, he knows he probably doesn’t need to let Hina know. The screams have probably woken the entire ship by now.  
“Masrur,” Sinbad calls. “Masrur, wake up!”  
The screams cut off in a choked gasp and Masrur shoots up in the bed, coughing and panting wildly.  
“Masrur?”  
The soft call of his name pulls the boy’s attention, eyes wide and full of unshed tears, to him. Sinbad thinks his heart might have broken at the look of pure agony. Jafar sits himself up on the floor, clear worry in his eyes, and Sinbad reaches a slow hand out to the trembling boy.  
“Masrur, are you awake?”  
He nods, a cough raking him again. A few tears slip from his eyes, face screwed up in pain. Across the room, the door flies open and Hina appears, Drakon in hot pursuit. Both of them ready to stop the boy’s flailing, like they have been all week. Sinbad holds up a hand to stop them.  
“He’s awake.”  
Both let out sighs of relief.  
“Good.” Hina makes his way to sit on the floor beside the bed. The exhaustion is written all over his face. “That’s very good.”  
“I’ll get him more water,” Drakon says, eyes on Masrur’s form, trembling with every cough.  
Sinbad nods, crawling over to his youngest family member again. Masrur doesn’t protest when he’s pulled onto Sinbad’s lap. One hand clasped over his chest, the other clamped around his mouth, Masrur’s coughing fit eventually turns to soft sniffles. Sinbad buries his nose in the mop of red hair, placing a kiss on the crown of his head, like his mother had once done for him.  
Small, choked noises escape through Masrur’s hand, body still twitching even now that his coughing has stopped. Sinbad frowns, glancing at the ohers to find them looking just as confused as he feels.  
“Masrur.” Hina keeps his voice quiet and soft. “Are you going to be sick?”  
The young boy shakes his head around another noise, eyes scrunched shut painfully tight.  
“Are you hurt?” Sinbad asks. He tugs at the hand still pressed to Masrur’s mouth, but the boy refuses to budge. “Masrur, what’s wrong?”  
Still no answer. From beside them, Jafar pushes himself onto the bed, eyes full of sorrow but understanding. With incredible care, he pulls Masrur from Sinbad’s lap and against him, cradling the younger boy as though he’s made of glass.  
“It’s alright,” Jafar tells him. “It’s alright to cry. You’re allowed. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t realize. But it’s alright. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to feel sad. It wasn’t your fault. She loved you, so much. She wouldn’t want you to hold it all in and feel like this.” Jafar somehow manages to pull Masrur’s hand down, holding it tightly in his own. “Is that what you’ve been dreaming about? Rurumu?”  
There’s a shaky intake of breath before he nods.  
“Masrur,” Jafar whispers, pulling him into a tight hug. “She loved you. She wanted you to be safe. You can cry. You can be sad.”  
The long wail that finally erupts from Masrur’s lips tears Sinbad’s heart to pieces and the entire bed shakes with the force of the young boy’s blood curdling sobs. Jafar pulls him closer, tears shining in his green eyes as he rubs Masrur’s back and rocks him from side to side. Beside the bed, Hina has his head in his hands, taking in shallow breaths, through Sinbad can barely hear them over the heart breaking wails from Masrur.  
Unsure of what else to do, Sinbad moves to Jafar’s side, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. The freckled boy leans against him, tears dripping into Masrur’s hair. Hina rises after a minute, returning to his line of sight with a water goblet and sets it on the side table. Then he places a kiss on the top of Masrur’s head.  
“She loved you,” he tells the boy. “Just like I do. You did nothing wrong, Masrur. I’m happy to still have you here.”  
The boy dissolves into a fresh wave of sobs. Hina kisses his head again, ruffles Jafars hair and gives Sinbad a slight smile before heading for the door. Glancing over his shoulder, Sinbad watches the large man shoo away the small crowd that has gathered and shut the door behind him.  
Masrur’s sobs continue for several minutes, until they turn to harsh coughs that leave him gagging and gasping for breath again. Jafar holds him close, mumbling a few comforting words as the emotional storm calms. Eventually, Masrur is left sniffling occasionally and curled against Jafar between coughs that shake the bed.  
Jafar hums softly, a tune that Sinbad assumes Rurumu must have taught him, rocking Masrur from side to side. After a long moment, the coughing subsides too, replaced by even breathes. Neither of them move or speak for a long time, just watch the peaceful look on the sleeping boy’s face.  
“How did you know?” Sinbad finally asks, pulling his gaze from Masrur.  
“I didn’t cry for six years.” Jafar’s voice is a whisper and he strokes Masrur’s cheek. “Not until you told me it was okay. I didn’t think I was allowed to. They used to tell me I couldn’t. I imagine that woman wanted him like they wanted me, emotionless, uncaring for his own survival. Alone.”  
Sinbad swallows hard. “Neither of you are alone now,” he offers.  
Careful to go slow, he moves Masrur back to the head of the bed to rest against the pillows. Jafar nods, following them and taking Masrur in his arms again when the younger boy’s arms search for his missing warmth and his sleeping face scrunches in confusion. Sinbad lays on Masrur’s other’s side, facing Jafar. He doesn’t miss the look of self disgust on the freckled boy’s face.  
“I should have noticed sooner.”  
“You can’t blame yourself.”  
“Well, who exactly would you like me to blame then?”  
“Me. You can blame me?”  
“Sin-”  
“Or,” Sinbad interrupts. “You could blame the bastards that did this. That took them. But the first thing he did when he woke up was apologize to you. Blaming yourself won’t make him feel better, Jafar. It’ll only make him feel worse.”  
Masrur shifts in his sleep, snuggling closer to Jafar, who glances at him with a small smile. It’s a rare sight, to see Masrur act like a real child. One that they’ve always taken joy in experiencing. Watching his awestruck face upon discovering what the moon looked like when it isn’t hidden behind barred windows. The way his face scrunches when he’s tried a new food and hates the taste. Now, when he’s curled against Jafar, fast asleep and free of fear.  
“Okay,” Jafar whispers. “Okay. For him.”  
Sinbad smiles. “Thank you. Now, get some sleep. I think we’ve earned it.”

A bit of dread seeps into Sinbad’s stomach when Masrur sleeps the rest of the night. He knows the young boy needs to rest, but his heart can’t take another week of Masrur’s only conscious moments full of screaming. And he doubts anyone else can handle it either.  
When he’d found them after so long, with Sharkkon in tow, he hadn’t expected happy, giggly people. But he also hadn’t expected to find Masrur stuck in a horrendous, unbreakable sleep state while the rest of the ship hung at the end of their rope. Jafar refused to leave Masrur’s room. Hina looked like he hadn’t slept in a year. The rest of the ship was in pure panic mode.  
Sinbad spent four days trying to calm everything while praying to anyone or anything that might listen. He doesn’t think he can do that again.  
So, he’s relieved when Masrur blinks his red eyes open the next day and reaches out to touch Sinbad’s face with a small, awed smile on his face.  
“Good, you’re awake.” Sinbad keeps his voice quiet, not wanting to disturb the still sleeping Jafar.  
Masrur nods, glancing at Jafar as well before yawning and nuzzling his cheek against the freckled boy’s shoulder. A weight is lifted off his shoulder.  
This is fine. They’ll be fine. Everything will slowly fall back into some semblance of normalcy. At least, he’s hoping it will. By now, SInbad should know better than to simply hope for anything.  
Masrur’s sleeping fits stop but the young boy is still far from alright. He sticks unnaturally close to Sinbad and Jafar and doesn’t speak unless all but ordered to. On the rare occasion he actually asks for something, he does so by pulling on one of their sleeves and whispering it, like he’ll be scolded if overheard.  
Jafar insists that they just go with it. That Masrur will adjust on his own again. Sinbad is less than sure, but he allows it.  
The change happens slowly. At first, it’s that Masrur doesn’t ask Jafar or Sinbad to sleep with him one night. Then, he tugs on Hina’s arm instead to ask for some water. He comes to dinner without being reminded. Slow but steady, everyone heals.  
It’s weeks later that Sinbad wanders onto the deck at night, just looking for some fresh air, and hears Masrur talking. The boy is on top of the cabin roof, staring up at the stars and the full moon and talking, his voice clearer than Sinbad has heard it in a while.  
“Jafar and Hina said it wasn’t my fault. Sin did too. And they know more than me. They’re always right. But, my chest still hurts. And - and I can’t say your name.” His voice trembles. “I try and it just gets stuck. If it wasn’t my fault, I wouldn’t feel that way, right? It’s gotta be my fault. Because - because I should have done something. Right? I’m bad and that’s why bad things happen. I made bad things happen to all of you.”  
Sinbad freezes, unsure of what to do, but all too aware of who Masrur is talking to.  
“Lady Maader used to say that bad things weren’t enough for me. That I needed to be punished extra and then she wouldn’t let me eat for three days. And, then, the bad things stopped. So, I didn’t eat for three days. But then I felt sick and I didn’t wanna eat and Jafar got mad and more bad things happened.” He sniffles. “So, I don’t really know how to make it any better. I’d ask, but Sin’s busy and I already made Jafar sad, so I’ll have to figure something else out. Sorry, I’m not smart enough to figure it out myself. I-I know you wanted me to be smart too. LIke everybody else and I tried, but, I’m only good for fighting. I’m almost done with Sin’s story though. I don’t know if I’ll be done by the last moon, but I can read it, better than I could.”  
Heart breaking, Sinbad circles around the building until he finds solid looking places to put his feet and hosts himself up. Masrur’s fallen silent, meaning he’s probably realized Sinbad is there. Sinbad is perfectly aware that he should feel at least partially guilty about eavesdropping on a private conversation but he can’t quite manage to.  
Masrur doesn’t turn to greet Sinbad as he sits, choosing to stare up at the sky instead. Sinbad finds he can’t think of a good way to start this conversation. Maybe Jafar is right. Maybe Sinbad really should stop jumping into things without thinking them through first.  
“She used to tell me that all brave warriors got put in the stars,” Masrur tells him after a long silence. “So that they could keep watching after the people they love. I thought, if I sit out here, then I can see her too.”  
“That’s a good thought,” Sinbad says. “Wonder where she is.”  
To his surprise, Masrur raises a hand to point above them. “That one. It keeps winking at me. None of the others are doing that.”  
Sinbad looks up at the sky, searching for a star that seems to stand out, but is unable to find one. Not that he’ll tell Masrur that.  
“Are you mad at me?”  
He tears his gaze away to look down at Masrur, who hugs his knees to his chest. “Mad at you?”  
“It was only supposed to be three days. So the bad things would stop. But then, I just wasn’t hungry anymore.”  
Sinbad sighs. “I’m not happy about it. But I’m not angry either. I do think we need to talk, though. Well, I need to talk and I need you to listen. Really listen, okay? Because this is important.”  
Masrur nods.  
“You are not a bad person. And nothing that happened was your fault.”  
“Sin-”  
“Shh. Listen. Bad things happen. They happen because that’s life and fate. And we can’t always stop the bad things. But they don’t happen because of you. None of this is your fault. And no one is punishing you. Not even you. Okay?”  
Masrur’s bottom lip trembles, eyes shining with tears. Sinbad reaches over and pulls him into his side, resting his cheek on Masrur’s head.  
“If you ever really feel like you did something wrong, come tell me. Or Jafar. Or Hina. Alright? If we think it was bad, we’ll work out a punishment. Does that sound fair?”  
After a moment of hesitation, the boy nods.  
“Promise me.”  
“I promise. I’ll let you or Jafar of Hina punish me when I’m bad.”  
“And you won’t do it yourself?”  
“No.”  
Sinbad nods, kissing the top of his head. “Thank you.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“You don’t have to be,” Sinbad tells him. “You didn’t mean it and I know that. We all do. But, it’s important that you come talk to us about things like this. I know you feel bad about Rurumu. And I know I’m not going to be able to convince you that it isn’t your fault. Even though, it isn’t. No one blames you and you shouldn’t blame yourself. I just want you to talk, okay? We’re not Rurumu, and I know you’re not really one for sharing emotions, but we can at least try to help.”  
“Okay.”  
With a sigh of relief, Sinbad kissing the top of his head.  
“Sin?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Why didn’t she let me help her?” His voice shakes with tears. “I would have.”  
“She didn’t want you to get hurt.”  
“I didn’t want her to get hurt either.”  
“I know.”  
They lapse into silence, staring up at the sky. Slowly, Sinbad feels the tension begin to fade from Masrur’s body, sleep starting to take over.  
“Sin?” His name is a sleepy whisper.  
“Yes?”  
“Thank you.”  
With a smile, he plants another kiss on Masrur’s head again. His chest feels lighter than it has in a while as Masrur’s breath slows in sleep. Another small victory, one he’s more than willing to accept. It’s no different than thing had been with Jafar. Time and patience heal all wounds, even if they leave some scars.  
He turns his gaze back to the stars. “He’ll be alright, Rurumu. We’ll take care of him.”  
Off to his left, he swears one of the stars winks.


End file.
